Maybe Possible
by Dream Pyre
Summary: Mello. Sometimes you don't get what you want, and sometimes you don't get what you need either, but sometimes you make it work anyway. Edited.


Edited, for typos and minor stylistic elements. Mello this time; this is... potentially mostly depressing, potentially not. So about the best I can do with Death Note and without AU. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

There are times, Mello knows, when you don't get anything you want, and sometimes you don't get what you need, either. But, sometimes, you can make what you get into what you need.

(And maybe, sometimes, you can even turn what you need into what you want.)

It's hard to see out of the apartment's window. It's been raining, only sprinkling, delighting children who went outside to run in it and cool off from the summer heat. Mello watched the raindrops gather, clinging to the window screen, and wondered if he'd ever run out in the rain like that.

(He wished he had. It would have been nice to know that there had been sometime when he wasn't too scared to be a kid. But maybe it would have been too tempting if he did remember. Maybe, when Kira is gone, he can do that.)

It's only because of the rain that it's hard to see. The clouds are thin; they're smooth and even and the sun goes right through them. The sky isn't any more opaque from the clouds than the indoor air is from Matt's smoke, which no matter how much Mello complains, isn't that hard to see or breath or think through, except maybe for late nights when no one's slept and his temper is sharp and Matt's is dull and he needs something to blame because he can't think well enough about some things and can think all too well about others.

(Because, maybe, he isn't that good at denial, and maybe he really knows that even if he catches Kira, even if he does everything perfectly from now on, he'll never be L, because Near already is, because when Mello gave Near the title from a fit of temper and passion and idealism, all he really did was prove that Near really was better, because Near never would have done that, so Near got what he wanted, because Mello let it go. Maybe, sometimes when it's late, he thinks too well and he knows that, and maybe when it's even later and the air is thicker with the smell of alcohol and nicotine than it ever should get to be, maybe he wonders if it's really worth it to care, and maybe if he ever stayed awake when it was even later and the alcohol and nicotine had gotten to be a taste more than a smell and it was so late he knew the sun was about to rise, maybe he'd start to wonder if, maybe, he didn't care after all.)

Near wouldn't care about the rain. Or the sun, or the thin clouds that let the sun shine and make the world bright when it should be dark, and make the raindrops on the window glitter and sparkle and glow like diamonds and butterfly wings and the eyes of a hundred tiny gods. Near wouldn't care; he wouldn't see the poetry in it, just like he doesn't see the poetry in death and risk and giving up everything you have to give someone else that you don't know a tiny chance at something better. Mello sees it all. He doesn't think about it much, really, but he sees it, and he knows it's there.

(And maybe he doesn't think about it because he knows that just because something is poetic, doesn't mean it's pretty or nice or true. And maybe he knows that life isn't always poetry all together even if little bits of it are when you put them together the right way. And maybe he knows that he isn't in a poem, and even if what he does is right and tragic and beautiful, no one knows and no one cares and nothing changes.)

Near wouldn't care that the sun is setting, and the clouds are glowing like an inverted armageddon, with oceans of blood in Heaven and the gray pavement below looking like paradise as children run around and get called inside and wonder why the fireflies aren't out tonight. Near wouldn't care that the rain is glowing red too, and the diamonds are rubies and the butterflies are death in the shape of black widow spiders and the hundred gods are hundreds of thousands of murdered dead demons once humans back from hell wanting revenge on Kira the one who killed them crying screaming for Mello to do what they want not what he does. Near wouldn't care.

(Near wouldn't ever even know. No dead spirits would ever cry to Near for vengeance through the rain. Mothers wouldn't call him in his dreams to save their children from a world where everyone is afraid and paranoid like he is, children don't look at him from his own mind and ask why he didn't kill Kira before Kira killed their parents, innocent accused, his reflection doesn't demand every time he walks by a puddle or a mirror why he hasn't done what he was raised all the time he remembers to do.)

Because even if the raindrops are diamonds and rubies and butterflies and death and gods and spirits, it's still just rain. And if it's poetic that the sun is shining while it rains, it's sick poetry, and it doesn't even mean anything. And even if Mello is drawn to the poetry, the poetry is wrong and it disgusts him, even though he doesn't know why.

(Maybe it's disgusting because it's meaningless, and maybe it's disgusting because it's just a little bit too familiar.)

It's hard to see now not because of the rain but because of the sun, on the edge of the horizon and burning into Mello's eyes, like the funeral pyre of every hope and dream of everyone in the world. That's okay, though, because Mello doesn't have hopes and dreams, he has determination and knowledge and goals, and it's not like Mello to let little things like poetic reality and symbolic, too-true sunsets get in the way of what he will do.

(Or, maybe, he's just better at denying some things than he is at denying others.)

After all, it's not like Mello has what he wants, or what he needs. He's just trying to turn what he doesn't need into what he needs, or if that doesn't work, turn himself into whoever needs what he has. Sometimes, he's sure, it's possible.

(Maybe this time it's not.)

Even if it's impossible, though, that won't stop him. He can always change what he needs, or change what he has. Maybe he'll know what he wants, someday. If he wants to know. Reality never got in Mello's way, he does lots of impossible things, as easily as he breaths. It's easy to do because it's him, who he is, and if there's one thing in the world that Mello has, it's himself. And maybe he isn't what he needs, but he's close enough, and it doesn't matter because he'll make it work anyway.

(And maybe, if the sunset is the funeral for every hope and dream, maybe Mello will stay awake late enough to watch the dawn, too.)


End file.
